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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24524824">believe it or not it’s just me</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey'>hellhoundsprey</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>spn kink bingo 2020 [17]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Accountant Castiel (Supernatural), Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Bottom Castiel (Supernatural), Dirty Talk, M/M, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Office Sex, Pining, Religious Guilt, Safer Sex, Single Parent Castiel (Supernatural), Top Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:00:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,549</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24524824</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas is a posterchild for bad luck, but apparently even those score a win every blue moon or so.</p><p>
  <i>spn kink bingo square 16: office sex</i>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>spn kink bingo 2020 [17]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602964</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>132</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>SPN Kink Bingo 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>believe it or not it’s just me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Cas has come to many-a questionable decision in his life. Out of all of them, ranging from ‘morally flexible’ to ‘definitely illegal in probably all states’, he’d thought that starting the most boring job on earth (accounting) for the helpless widowed friend of a friend of a friend (ex-marine, never even went to jail this one, mind you!) would be the one having him wringing his hands, glancing at the tiny, half-rotten chapel down his street, considering going to confession.</p><p>It’s just a side-gig next to his main (also accounting-related) employment; he needs the money. Only ten hours a week. And definitely (absolutely) nothing illegal about it.</p><p>Kid’s let his age slip (oh-so-passingly) before, conveniently, in Cas’ earshot. (Just outside the tiny dusty cage of an office Bobby’s designated to the bare minimum of documentation for his auto shop. That decade-old PC tower has Cas contemplating asking for a respiratory mask to work on next time.)</p><p>Cas is in the clear. Which makes things worse, if that’s even possible.</p><p>“Shh-shh-shh,” he begs, bouncing his daughter on his arm, but Claire is, just like destiny, merciless.</p><p>She’s been bawling so long Cas couldn’t describe silence if his life depended on it.</p><p>His ears ring with the power of a million angels, screaming.</p><p>He sighs.</p><p>When is <em>his</em> turn to cry, for fuck’s sake?</p><p>“We all came out to Montreux / On the Lake Geneva shoreline…”</p><p>She forces him to cycle through some Metallica and Queen before she eventually allows herself to be settled with <em>Yesterday</em>, out of all things.</p><p>~</p><p>“So, how’s it going?”</p><p>“Uh, excellent,” blurts Cas, nearly scolding his stupid mouth with the piping hot coffee.</p><p>“Good, good.”</p><p>Bobby helps himself from the refill, his trucker hat pulled deep into his always-set eyes. Smells like ten health code violations but he’s a doll and pays Cas like someone who is truly, excessively grateful for his help. Despite his grumpy nature, Cas likes the old man. Blame it on his weak spot for father figures, why don’t you.</p><p>“I found some more papers,” hears Cas, and his heart sinks. Bobby tries to mask his own embarrassment, but he’s too sweet for that kind of foolery. “In my basement. Imma cart ’em over one of these days, if you could take a look at ’em?”</p><p>“Sure, sure.” Electrocute me with that jumper cable on the wall over there while you’re at it.</p><p>“Thanks, pal.”</p><p>Cas smiles politely with the hefty slap to his shoulder that makes his glasses slip that other half of an inch down his nose.</p><p>“Wouldn’t know what to do without you.”</p><p>“Eh, you’re welcome, old man.”</p><p>Bobby growls, “Not you, Dean,” while Cas tries his best not to lose grip on reality and/or his cup of coffee.</p><p>The kid pushes between them with enough swagger to impregnate everyone in a ten-mile radius; reaches into the cupboard above their heads for a cup. Cas hates that the first instinct his body wants to give into at the sight of those sweat-stained armpits is to fucking smother his face in them.</p><p>“How’re you holdin’ up, doc?” Cas hears, and the shock upon meeting Dean’s eyes and finding them watching him ogling him is enough for Cas to forget his physical shell to a degree that has him clutching his burning hot cup with both hands.</p><p>He nearly drops the forsaken thing. “I—sure, yes.” Goddammit. “I mean, yes. It’s going well. Fantastic, even.”</p><p>Dean showers him with that sly smile of his that must have driven countless souls into damnation prior to Cas’. Jesus fucking Christ, he’s <em>spiritual</em> <em>harassment on legs</em>.</p><p>“Stop bullying him and get back to work, you hear me? Those spark plugs ain’t gonna install themselves.”</p><p>Dean drawls, “Yeah, yeah,” and looks simply fantastic in his ruined overalls, his bare arms smeared with probably ten different kinds of oils whose stains Cas couldn’t get out of anything despite the many-a bottles and potions residing in his laundry room. He’s freckled like some otherworldly masterpiece, from the tips of his fingers to the hairline of all that dishwater-blond.</p><p>He’s picked the <em>Dirty Dancing</em> cup because God hates Castiel Novak.</p><p>“I’m not bullying you, am I?” Dean play-pretend worries once Bobby’s out of the kitchen, leaves them to themselves like Cas could handle that, like Cas could handle <em>any bit of that</em>. “Jus’ makin’ friendly conversation, s’all.”</p><p>From down the hall, Bobby’s voice bellows, “You can converse friendly once you’re off the clock, son!” and Dean clicks his tongue, not losing an inch of his humor.</p><p>“But once you ask for a raise, he’s surprisingly deaf.”</p><p>Dean raises Swayze in the air between them, toasting towards Cas prior to his first sip, another quick smile before he says, “See ya,” and Cas has just about enough mental capacity left to mumble, “Yes,” into his non-existent beard before he’s by himself once more.</p><p>He sighs, painedly, then hisses because he’s folded his hands around his goddamn cup <em>again</em>.</p><p>He will absolutely, completely lose his mind.</p><p>One of these days. Mark his words.</p><p>He’ll have to call Claire’s godparents, tell them that yeah, sorry, wasn’t planned but somehow I’m running away with this very hot, definitely legal mechanic? She loves Barney The Dinosaur, hates broccoli; take care!</p><p>Nobody in their forties should still be able to be this horny, this clumsy. You have a child, Castiel, where is your <em>dignity</em>?</p><p>In the washer, probably, together with the dozens of banana-sticky napkins.</p><p>Cas has his chin in his hand, his ass planted on the lone, falling-apart office chair. Should worry about his knowledge involving tax fraud, given the circumstances; meditate over how his self-worth is doing considering he’ll have to call up Gabe and ask him for another of those dreaded lawyer-favors that usually involve a lot of begging and emotional blackmailing. Instead, he works up a solid hard-on over how Dean’s arms bulge with the honest efforts of his (very physical, very masculine) work, out there, just beyond the lopsided blinds dangling in front of the only window, facing into the garage.</p><p>Cas sighs deeply, either way.</p><p>His coffee has long cooled, forgotten, next to the freshly disinfected keyboard.</p><p>~</p><p>Next time he hears as much the first syllable of ‘basement’, Cas will excuse himself and discreetly migrate to Europe. Or Africa. Somewhere he doesn’t speak the language and thus cannot possibly do work that includes papers with written words on them.</p><p>He’s sworn it, in favor of future Cas.</p><p>Present Cas though regrets, because there’s barely room for him to move from and to the desk.</p><p>He’s had a good cry, earlier today. It’s Wednesday, which means his favorite show will be on, and he can peek at two or three lines of subtitles while Claire demands not only his attention but approximately ten years off his life. So, things could be worse.</p><p>He takes a short brake, kneads at the bridge of his nose. A sigh, blind reach for his coffee—empty, naturally.</p><p>More sighing.</p><p>Cas drags himself out of his self-made prison, towards the kitchen. Someone finished the last pot without starting a new one, naturally, so Cas reaches into the depths of the bottom drawers to take care of that.</p><p>Only that his hand reaches nothing.</p><p>He frowns, bends down to peer inside.</p><p>Huh.</p><p>What a surprise. Nothing.</p><p>“All out,” he breathes, and feels all will to live leaving him with it.</p><p>Christ on a toast.</p><p>You’re a grown man. Get it together.</p><p>It’s only <em>coffee</em>.</p><p>It’s <em>not only coffee</em>, goddammit.</p><p>Cas digs his entire arm into the cupboard, starts, “Jesus fucking—” and karma hits him just as hard as the pulled-out drawer hits the back of his head when he jerks heavenwards upon that certain voice musing,</p><p>“Can I help—woah! Careful there!”</p><p>“I’m, it’s—” Cas is gonna cry. Gonna bawl and he’s sweating, on his knees on the dirty linoleum floor and there’s <em>no coffee</em> and Dean’s <em>so tall, so handsome</em> even from this unflattering perspective, looking down at the miserable worm that is Castiel and maybe he looks pitiful enough to be held, shushed, consoled. God. “I’m—no coffee?”</p><p>“Ah, your head all right? Bumped into that pretty hard just now, man.”</p><p>“I, <em>yes</em>, I am fine, no big deal. I’m fine, really.”</p><p>Dean helps him up with a strong yank on Cas’ arm, and Cas would be lying if he wasn’t considering dropping back down just to feel <em>that</em> again.</p><p>“Up you go,” beams Dean, the kid, Cas’ daydream-husband. “No coffee, you say? Huh, damn.”</p><p>“I might have been indulging it plenty, lately,” admits Cas, guiltily.</p><p>“Your little one’s keepin’ you up at night?”</p><p>“I, yes, she’s—she’s quite the, the rascal.”</p><p>Cas’ blabbering momentarily stops with him being blinded and deafened by the sight of Dean, bending over to retrieve his duffle bag from one of the lower cabinets.</p><p>He finishes, wet around the edges, “Difficult age.”</p><p>“Man, I hear you. Remember when Sammy was that small. Fuckin’ nightmare, ain’t they?”</p><p>Cas gets handed something, accepts it without looking at it, because, “Oh. Oh, you’ve…?”</p><p>“As in Sammy, my <em>brother</em>,” informs Dean, carefully. He raises one hand slightly above his head. “Yea high at this point. Still an asshole, though.”</p><p>Cas gasps, “Oh,” and again, “Oh, I see.”</p><p>Dean smiles at him.</p><p>Cas smiles back, clueless.</p><p>“Coffee,” says Dean, and Cas laughs, curiously, “What?”</p><p>Cas follows the line of Dean’s now pointed finger all the short way up to the object clasped in Cas’ own hands.</p><p>A thermos. Beaten-up, cheap; stainless steel and faded black plastic.</p><p>Dean supplies, “Should still be warm, made it this morning before work. Careful though, it’s strong. Breakfast blend.”</p><p>Cas repeats, braindead, “Oh,” and weighs the object in his hands. Mesmerized—that he was entrusted with this.</p><p>“I only drank, like, two sips. Should last you until seven.”</p><p>“I—thank you.”</p><p>“’Cause that’s when you get off, right?”</p><p>Cas breathes, “Hum?” at the choice of words, at the weight of that eye contact; looks up at Dean, then, heedlessly.</p><p>Up at Dean, who has him fixed with his stupid-green eyes. “At seven.”</p><p>Cas’ mouth shivers open for a polite reply. For something. Anything, for sure.</p><p>“I—yes. Correct.”</p><p>“Great. Good,” says Dean, who smiles again, now, ducks his head and wishes Cas, “Good luck, then,” and is gone, leaves only the beautiful view of his broad back and the puddle that once was known as Castiel Novak, lizard-brained part-time accountant.</p><p>For a change, the thermos doesn’t burn his palms.</p><p>~</p><p>The time turns seven. Turns two after seven. Turns a quarter past.</p><p>Cas shrinks just a little more behind the desk.</p><p>It’s starting to get dark out. Annie, his loyal babysitter, already texted him, asking where he’s at. Only a ten-minute walk from here, his humble little mortgage-hungry abode. Cas is a very punctual man, usually.</p><p>He’s also dumb as hell, apparently, or hallucinated the dialogue. The underlying tone in Dean’s expression, how he had stressed the exact time—seven pm—and had handed Cas an obviously essential object he requires for his daily life tasks, such as caffeinating himself in the mornings. Which he would require back, naturally.</p><p>Cas could go out there, but there was a customer, and now they’re closing the entire thing down.</p><p>Clattering and hollering and he’d already offered Annie another fifty if she stays for another two hours, please, pretty please with chocolate sprinkles on top.</p><p>Hell, if all else fails, he could go have a drink or something. A decent dinner, somewhere, without getting baby food spat into his face.</p><p>It’s not like he doesn’t know how to <em>enjoy</em> himself.</p><p>People pass by Cas’ window, don’t see him, ignore him. He’s turned the PC off a while ago, after all, and it’s dark except for his phone shining back at him.</p><p>Annie texts back her ‘sure!’ in time with them killing the lights, dipping the hall in entire, ultimate darkness.</p><p>Cas deflates.</p><p>He’s too sad to cry—until he hears a clicking noise that his brain surprisingly quickly combines with the fact that they’re closing, they’re locking you <em>in</em>, Novak, and you don’t even have a <em>bucket</em> or nothing, and he’s almost jumped to his feet but his door shoves open instead, bumps into one of the many stacks of papers not only Bobby had hoped could possibly be ‘filed’ by an unfortunate fire.</p><p>Hears, “Fuck,” and that word in that voice does unchristian things to Cas.</p><p>Dean finds his phone, activates its flashlight. Shines it right into Cas’ face on accident; he apologizes.</p><p>“You still here? Hell.”</p><p>“Your thermos,” offers Cas; turns his open palm towards the (cleaned, of course) object.</p><p>“My…?” And Dean remembers then, obviously. Cas can’t help but smile at the sound of him drawing his laughter through his teeth. “Shit, yeah. Man, you didn’t have to, like, sit here and wait? Just put it in the kitchen sink, I’ll grab it when I leave.”</p><p>“I just…thought it was? More polite,” Cas stammers, enthusiasm fading quickly. He puts his phone down, defeated.</p><p>“Just come talk to me then, I’m right there, y’know?” Softer, “Fuck,” and Cas notifies in reflex as Dean shoves his way inside the crammed little space. “You’re too nice to me,” warns Dean, an airy little laugh along with that and god he’s young, isn’t he, just cracked his twenties; <em>Jesus</em>.</p><p>You’re being babied by a <em>baby</em>, Castiel.</p><p>“I’m, you—you’re the one being nice,” blabbers Cas, jumpy on his chair because Dean’s knocking into papers left and right, but fortunately it’s not a long way to his desk. “I am sure you could have used that coffee yourself, seeing how you guys always work so hard out there, and I’m just here burning daylight and typing away on that dumb machine, and—”</p><p>“Cas?”</p><p>“Y—” Cas balks. “Yes?”</p><p>Dean’s close enough to touch, to smell. The moment Cas notices that, he can’t think of anything else.</p><p>One of Dean’s hands finds Cas’ chair where the neck-support would be in a decent one, and Cas’ heart stumbles cruelly with the nudge that gives through his entire spine.</p><p>Dean says, “Do me a favor and stop talking, okay?” and Cas opens his mouth to agree, yes, of course, but Dean’s lips meeting his settles that one, once and for all.</p><p>As sweet as the gesture is at first, as fast does it escalate.</p><p>Cas tastes himself, the burn of hunger and too-strong-coffee; Dean’s tuna-sandwich-lunch somewhere still on that tongue, in the corner of a tooth, maybe.</p><p>Cas’ hands fly into that hair quicker than he’d thought possible, and the sheer <em>heat</em> of Dean’s palms on his face nearly opens the pearly gates for him, personally.</p><p>They tear at each other, teeth clicking and all.</p><p>The lack of logical thought culminates to one of them wiping the keyboard and mouse clear off the table while the other bumps the chair into one of the paper piles. It is possible that both of those people are Cas.</p><p>Not Cas, definitely, who heaves Cas upon the table, both hands on his ass and tearing at his belt an instant later. Who stands between Cas’ legs like he belongs here, Cas’ arms thrown around his neck, who trades their spit back and forth between their mouths while Cas tries to breathe despite it all.</p><p>The fucking whiplash.</p><p>“I’m, I, <em>god</em>—”</p><p>“It’s ‘Dean’,” Dean pants as he yanks the pleather belt from Cas’ polyester-mix khakis, tosses the thing away, into the dark; flips Cas’ tie over Cas’ shoulder next before he makes the quickest of work of Cas’ pants’ button and zipper. “Call me Dean.”</p><p>“Dean,” gulps Cas, entirely ready to do whatever, say whatever, as long as this <em>doesn’t stop</em>.</p><p>“I see you lookin’ at me,” is a confession, an accusation; nowhere as cruel as him wrenching Cas’ pants open as far as they will go and down his ass—Cas helps, enthusiastically, by hanging onto that neck and letting Dean lift him those few inches he needs to leave Cas butt-naked.</p><p>Literally.</p><p>“You think about me when you go home, huh?”</p><p>Dean unsnaps the straps of his overalls and they’re so heavy they drop to the floor immediately, leave Dean glorious in a long-ago white tee, grimy and sweat-matted and the little light from his phone on the table exaggerates every muscle clearly visible underneath that fitted cotton, right along with the harsh points of his nipples. Cas still dangles from his neck like a fucking accessory.</p><p>“You think of me when you stroke that pretty dick, Cas? Like I think of you?”</p><p>Cas has lost all meaning except for this. “Please?”</p><p>Dean shuts him up, thankfully, with lips and tongue and the harsh momentum of his body.</p><p>Of Dean pushing his underwear down to get his cock and balls out, step closer so he can slap it down on Cas’ thigh right.</p><p>“Jesus fucking—”</p><p>“Good boys don’t swear, Cas, do they?” and Cas loses it a little more, stares at Dean with his eyes so wide he might take (further) permanent damage, and all Dean does is smirk at him, nearly demonic with the light from below, exaggerating his features, the white of his eyes.</p><p>Cas doesn’t notice he’s wrapped his legs around Dean’s hips until Dean so easily lines up to press the slime-wet head of his cock against Cas’ dry asshole.</p><p>“I’m, I—”</p><p>“A good boy, Cas?”</p><p>“Y-yes, I, I—”</p><p>“You wanna take this cock like a good boy, Cas?” and Cas doesn’t think he’s nodded his head this hard before, this frantically, vows <em>yes</em> and <em>yes</em> and <em>yes</em> and Dean kisses him as a reward, hums deep and pleased into his mouth; Cas’ cheeks squished in one of his hands while the other still dry-fucks his cock against where they both need him to be.</p><p>“Fingers or mouth?”</p><p>Cas slurs, “Yes?” and Dean laughs, all cruel.</p><p>“Nuh-uh, choose for me, c’mon.”</p><p>Cas goes for, “F-fingers, then,” just because the thought of not kissing this mouth for even a minute brings true tears to his eyes.</p><p>Dean growls, “Yeah?” and already dips down to retrieve something from one of the endless pockets of his overalls; tosses half of it onto the table and rips something open to squeeze on his fingers.</p><p>There’s two fingers pushing into Cas’ ass before he can even scoot said ass off the edge of the table for access.</p><p>Manages, “Oh,” all intelligently, as always, and swears he feels the goosebumps racing down the back of Dean’s neck.</p><p>Dean stuffs his mouth with his too-big tongue for Cas to muffle his sorrows against.</p><p>How, Jesus fuck, it’s been a while, and, he doesn’t, he doesn’t <em>know</em>, if—</p><p>“We’ll make it fucking fit, don’t you worry.”</p><p>Cas is reduced to an achy mess in the blink of an eye, all because Dean’s already knuckle-deep and angling in a third and Cas hasn’t re-learned how to breathe yet, let alone process the fact that this is really happening. That Dean fucking Winchester is fingerbanging him in the midst of dusty mountains of paper and a personal computer nearly twice his age.</p><p>“Fuck, feels so good.” Gritted, growled; straight to Cas’ cock, all of that; forehead to forehead with this beautiful, beautiful man. “Gonna be so fucking tight on my cock, won’t you? Shit, you need it, huh? You need it so bad?”</p><p>Castiel vows, “<em>Yes</em>,” and feels too high with it. Clenched around three of Dean’s impossible fingers and that cock is steady-leaking against Cas’ thigh, throbbing patiently like a goddamned animal. “Please, you can do it. Do it.”</p><p>Dean laughs at him, crooks and pulls his fingers. “Yeah? You sure ’bout that?”</p><p>Cas lies, “Absolutely,” but he’s a few decades late to giving a fuck. “Fuck me. Put it in.”</p><p>“Fuck you where?”</p><p>“Fuck my ass.”</p><p>Dean laughs again, dog-growls against Cas’ teeth. Twists his fingers and Cas is apparently gonna die in a much, much more pleasant way than previously imagined.</p><p>“Fucking right I’m gonna fuck your ass.”</p><p>It’s so fucking dark and they’re making out through all of it, so Cas is even more so delighted that Dean’s such a practiced guy; that he can put on a condom and thread his cock into where he’s barely even retracted his fingers from without breaking their sloppy excuse of a kiss.</p><p>Cas’ flat hand slams down onto the table hard enough to rattle the monitor.</p><p>Dean laugh-grunts over Cas’ muffled, “FUCK,” a true pain and stretch but oh god he needs, he needs and he burns and if this sends him to the hospital, at least he’ll get a bill or something that’ll serve as evidence that this here fucking <em>happened</em>.</p><p>“Give it a second,” soothes Dean, blanketing him and how haven’t they shoved the monitor off the table yet? And Dean rocks into him, him who is Cas who whimpers like a girl, like a virgin, and who defames the Lord at the promising tickle of pubes against his taint.</p><p>“Shh-shh-shh,” whisper-tucked behind Cas’ clattering teeth, together with that tongue. With meaningless comfort while Dean’s forcing into his guts like he has every right.</p><p>And by god, he does.</p><p>“Got another if this one breaks,” informs Dean, and Cas can’t make sense of it until he realizes he means the condom. Dean peels his chest off Cas’ to tug that button-down up Cas’ sternum, reveal the once-fit plane now telling the tales of a-many all-you-can-eat buffets. Cas is almost done tearing in half on that cock; pulls inside-out on the downstrokes but it’s getting easier, now, doesn’t drag as hard.</p><p>Cas hiccups, “O-okay.”</p><p>“Because it might,” warns Dean, casually, and the first long pull out nearly has Cas scrambling off the desk.</p><p>Dean holds him down without visible effort.</p><p>Drip-drops sweat into Cas’ face, though, from temples and hairline and nose, and looks equally pained, but only Cas whimpers on the slow push back inside.</p><p>“God, you’re gonna make me come so good.”</p><p>Dean’s trembling, even prior to Cas threading his hands around his face, cupping it and holding him close, kissing him all sweet and deep and reassuring.</p><p>What he wants to say, basically, is that he can take it, it’s all right, but also please let me have your babies and let’s play Elvis on our wedding day, okay?</p><p>Dean’s hips begin to work, steady and slow, building a rhythm Cas quickly learns is, actually, acutely more than he thought he would be taking.</p><p>Which, considering he’s thought about this very scenario in length, surprises him.</p><p>“Oh, god, oh, <em>god</em>—”</p><p>Dean balls something past Cas’ teeth and advises, “Chew on this instead,” and Cas couldn’t object to anything spilling from that sin-mouth even if he allusively wanted to.</p><p>Dean bangs him out deeper than Cas thought he’d be able to enjoy it and leaves him so, so messy.</p><p>Cas can feel it—the filth and lube slopping from his tailbone, further soiling the coffee-and-god-knows-what stained carpet floor.</p><p>Can hear it, too.</p><p>Somewhere underneath Dean’s and his own animal-grunts, the creak of the poor table.</p><p>Dean rumbles, “So fucking close,” panting and eyes closed and he’s so beautiful, so strained and dripping with sweat and Cas would urge him on if it wasn’t for the makeshift gag, would say <em>yeah, yes, please, feel free, of course</em>.</p><p>The firm grip on his own slobbery cock catapults him right to the edge he didn’t know he was even riding, has him clenching so hard and surprised and Cas comes nearly immediately with it, the fucking pleasure-pain of Dean hammering through the intensified pressure, through the waves and waves of Cas’ guts milking at him like some god, somewhere, intended.</p><p>Dean begins to shake apart in-synch with him punching one of the last, huge gushes of come out of his cock from the fucking <em>inside</em>.</p><p>Cas has made small talk with at least three archangels by the time he’s back to earth, back where he can be conscious of Dean’s collapsed weight on top him, the combined funk of their sweat; Dean’s labored, hot breath right into the blood-filled, sensitive shell of his ear.</p><p>Holy fucking shit.</p><p>“Jesus.”</p><p>Cas uh-hums.</p><p>Dean peels the fabric from Cas’ mouth without ceremony, and Cas spits his tongue out a few, dry times, before it’s remotely comfortable once more.</p><p>He realizes that what he’s been chewing on this whole time was his own tie, and if he wasn’t this blissed out and brainless, he’d probably have to pretend to be upset about that.</p><p>Dean begins, “That was…!”</p><p>Cas uh-hums again.</p><p>“I think I died. I think you killed me.”</p><p>“Apologies.”</p><p>Cas pets that drenched back of a head. Feels Dean chuckling, weak, with his cock still tucked safe and deep, softening just slow enough to give them a little more time to just lay around like this and not move.</p><p>Dean’s the braver one of them, because he starts the entire process—lifts his arm, thumbs at his watch to light up its screen.</p><p>Groans, “Shit,” and, feebly pushing himself up on his elbows, “Gonna miss my train.”</p><p>“I’m, uh, my house’s…nearby, you. Can wait. There. If you want.” Adds, “Only if you want,” and Dean’s high enough up to frown-grin down at him and his stupidity.</p><p>“It’s still in you, man; no need to be this desperate.”</p><p>Cas slurs his laugh, embarrassed on some level he doesn’t have access too, neither currently nor in the near future.</p><p>Dean mutters, though, as he starts pulling out, “Appreciate it, though.”</p><p>Dean helps him clean up, helps him find his belt and attempts to pat his tie into a slightly less crinkly mess. The mission fails, but Cas assures him that it’s no big deal.</p><p>Bigger deal might be how Cas is supposed to walk home right now.</p><p>Dean laughs at how he waddles. Locks the office behind them, the front gate once they’re past that, too.</p><p>“You can stop flattering me.”</p><p>Cas assures, “I have yet to even <em>start</em> to flatter,” and Dean chuckles around the cigarette he’s pinched between his lips now, which he lights and whose smoke whips back into his breathtaking, oil-smeared face.</p><p>Cas gestures towards him, and Dean peels another one out for him, lights it with his own.</p><p>They stand together, like that, for a moment. Just drifting in the rush of nicotine (it’s been years, you weakling), of the cool early night breeze.</p><p>“So,” Dean murmurs around his smoke, leaning against the corrugated iron making up the front of the shop. “Your kid’s already asleep, or?”</p><p>“Oh, no.” Cas shakes his head, smokes, sighs. “No, she will be up until… Well, until she decided she has had enough.”</p><p>“A rebel.”</p><p>“Truly.” Cas takes another deep, surely soon-regretted drag. But fuck that. Fuck future Cas. Present Cas is happy and you’ll have to pry that from his cold, dead hands. “When does your train depart?”</p><p>“Think the last one leaves around one.”</p><p>“Ah. I see.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>They smoke.</p><p>They might be invisible, from afar. Only the cherries of their cigarettes gleaming in a pool of blue, of the metal and asphalt of the industrial area.</p><p>Dean inquires, “So,” steps on what was left, fumbles for a new one; steps forward, away from the shop as he turns towards Cas. “You comin’?”</p>
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